


Beneath the Quiet Heaven of Your Eyes

by Aboutnothingness (Thesherlockholmes)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Day at the Races era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Insecure Freddie, Internalized Homophobia, Lots of Cuddling, Platonic Soulmates, Touring, implied disordered eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Aboutnothingness
Summary: Perhaps Roger would be up for a game of scrabble- even without his voice Freddie could be entertaining. Selfishly, he could use some company. It feels particularly pressing, exhausted as he is, to not be alone. Not tonight.Freddie is exhausted from touring and Roger's there for him.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 73





	Beneath the Quiet Heaven of Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freddieofhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freddieofhearts/gifts).



> Thank you to my beautiful beta BisexualRoger for helping me make this piece as close to perfection as mortally possible, for sorting out my grammar and turns of phrase, as well as for pointing out the loveliest bits. I adore you, darling!
> 
> And my dear readers, enjoy!
> 
> (for FreddieofHearts, I hope you enjoy this dear. Consider it a gift for all the lovely writing you gift this fandom with. x )

_We sit and talk,_   
_quietly, with long lapses of silence_   
_and I am aware of the stream_   
_that has no language, coursing_   
_beneath the quiet heaven of_   
_your eyes_   
_which has no speech._

\- from 'Paterson', by William Carlos Williams

\---

His limbs ached, his voice was shot, and if he had to answer one more _inane_ question from reporters: yes the album was similar; no we haven't run out of ideas, dear;

  
- _and worse_ -

  
‘What? Theatrical you say? — _a flippant gesture—_ Well, I do think that's rather what we want to bring over onstage... yes, _all_ of us.’

  
Pompous, aristocratic— fuck them.

  
Thank goodness they never said such things to Roger, he'd blow his top! Probably tell them about that Christmas with the bread sauce— starving and having _only_ the bread sauce.

  
Well, they're far from that now. Not any less willing to kill themselves for two hours a night, though. No, they'd always go on like that. Everyone's exhausted, but Freddie pays the heaviest price, and they know it. They're kind about it, fetching him tea, and when that doesn't suffice, a drink. Really all he wants is to go home, again. See David and the cats: how are they, he wonders. He hopes Tom hasn't killed any mice and that Jerry hasn't made a mess of the curtains. Mary, the sweet girl, drops in to give them their food he knows, but even still. They're probably lonely. One and the same then, he and the cats. They rule a house and he rules the stage. They curl up in your lap and well, David doesn't particularly like it, but Roger's always there for a cuddle. Speaking of which-

  
He reaches over for the phone on the nightstand. Perhaps Roger would be up for a game of scrabble— even without his voice Freddie could be entertaining. Selfishly, he could use some company. It feels particularly pressing, exhausted as he is, to not be alone. Not tonight.

  
He dials the room number and after a few rings, hears Roger's soft, high pitched, "Hello?"

  
"Roger, darling," he says, rough, strained, and barely audible, "Come over for an evening in?"

  
"Sure, Freddie, sure. I'm awfully tired, though."

  
"No parties, dear. Just us two queens."

  
Roger laughs at the old sentiment, "Sounds perfect. Be there in a minute."

  
The line is disconnected and Freddie summons the strength to get up from the bed and make some tea. There's a knock on the door just as he pours the water into the cups— he never lets room service make tea anymore, it's always a disaster, lukewarm and too sweet— so, he goes over to answer it.

  
There's Roger, bags under his eyes, and a wry smile on his lips.

  
"You look terrible." Roger says as a way of greeting. Freddie had fled the venue that night, too exhausted for more than a few cursory notes on the performance, and Roger hasn't seen him without makeup on.

  
"You're not so beautiful yourself." He teases, ridding the conversation of any seriousness.

  
"Thousands of people would argue differently." Freddie ushers him into the room and finishes with the tea. Milk, two sugars in both. It’s become familiar over the years.

  
"You mean the audience? Dear, they can't even see you!"

  
"Then I'll put my face on my drums." 

  
Freddie hands him his tea and shakes his head, ever so amused.

  
"Beware of vanity, darling. Now," he claps his hands to makeup for the lack of enthusiasm in his voice, "What do you say to a game of Scrabble?"

  
"I can't even string a sentence together, Fred. What about a movie, one of those old ones you like?"

  
"Sure, alright."

  
"I'll find one then. Get some room service, would you? I'm starved. And some for yourself, I won't have you stealing bites off my plate."

  
Freddie rolls his eyes at the remark, but does as he's told ordering hamburgers and chips ( _fries_ , as they're called in _America_ )— the only half acceptable offering on the menu. For a high class hotel they're severely disappointing him.

  
"Too bad we don't have any popcorn, wouldn't that be great?"

  
"I could get someone to go fetch some, dear."

  
"No, no Fred. I was just—" he's interrupted by a yawn, "I'm knackered. Come on, this one looks good." There's a movie on that Freddie knows is a Greta Garbo one, what luck! He curls up on the bed and pats the space beside him.

  
"Come here, dear. We can both see."

  
Roger kicks off his shoes and discards the jacket he's wearing onto a chair and then he's there, punching a pillow down to his liking, and lying down. He turns the volume up on the set and then pulls the blanket over them both. Just when they're settled and Freddie isn't poking Roger with his "bony as fuck elbow", there's a knock on the door.

  
"That'll be room service. Could you get it, dear? I've just got settled."

  
"Sure, Fred. 'Course."

  
He leaves the bed, and Freddie takes the opportunity to tug just a bit more of the covers over to his side. There's a few murmurs and then Rog is back carrying two trays.

  
"Here we are, finest gourmet it seems." Roger quirks an eyebrow at Freddie as he places Freddie's plate on the bedside table, taking his own and settling back down against the headboard. Roger's lap is now right at the level of Freddie's head, so he takes the opportunity to move over and lay his head on the man’s lap. Roger places his plate down next to him and settles an arm around Freddie's shoulders, natural as anything, as if they do this everyday. Freddie finds himself almost wishing they did as Roger tugs the cover right up under his chin, perfect and safe.

  
The movie plays on, all romance and dramatic music, the perfect charm and extravagance of vintage films that Freddie so loves. Roger finishes his meal and Freddie avoids his— that is until Roger reaches over and picks up chips from his plate and holds them out one by one to Freddie, looking at him pointedly. The message is obvious, and after looking at Roger with a mew about his lips he takes one and eats. They continue on like this until Roger seems satisfied, which is only after he's eaten half the hamburger along with most of the chips.

  
It's all very wonderful, until his mind starts to wander, because of course it does. Many would think that Brian is the one who is so tortured by unending thoughts, and while he most certainly is, the poor dear, he isn't the only one. Freddie is rather good at keeping them in check, he's had a lifetime of practice after all, due to his _inclinations_. But ever so often, when he's too tired to fight the world for another second, he gives in and, right now, even peaceful and comfortable as he is, the thoughts won't stop. He breathes, feeling the thoughts pile, and tries to focus on the film, on Roger's company, his arm around him, his warmth and familiarity. He's safe here with his old friend. _Stop, stop, Roger's tired. He shouldn't have to deal with this you soft boy. Stop acting like a hysterical girl_. That's David's voice mixed in his thoughts and he is right, Freddie is a grown man— he shouldn't break down on a whim like some weakling, like a _child_. Even so, his breath speeds up against his instruction, _stop stop stop_ , but his eyes are watering and there's no holding this back, this pure exhaustion. He's _so_ tired.

  
Hopefully Roger won't notice, he can just pull himself together in a second like always. But it isn't happening. In fact, as the worries pound through his head, he finds himself begin to shake like a leaf and there's no way Roger isn't going to notice now, not with his being in Roger's lap, in his arms.

  
"Freddie?" Roger's light voice, soft and gentle. Maybe if he doesn't answer then Roger will leave it alone, but then the man is turning him around and Freddie hasn't the strength to start a fight as a distraction, so he goes right along until he's facing Roger— eyes and cheeks probably looking red and ugly from crying— and he looks down at the cover, looks anywhere but at Roger. 

  
"Hey, Freddie," but that doesn't work either, because Roger just coaxes his face up to look at him and so the only defence left is to close his eyes, will away the tears. "It's alright, no don't look like that, hey," and then he's enveloped in Roger's arms, face pressed to his shoulder, probably ruining the man's shirt with his tears.

  
"Freddie, breathe," Roger rubs a hand on his back, soft and gentle as if petting a frightened animal, "Breathe, that's right." Roger hushes him, and Freddie wonders if this is what mothers do when their children have nightmares— he'd always fared on his own, alone at school— it's wonderful, even with the tinge of humiliation. It feels like protection from his life that’s one long nightmare, he thinks idly, but he deserves the nightmare. The pain and the terror and the loneliness.

  
Roger is still babbling nonsense and strangely, it helps. He doesn't feel better, not in the least, but he's stopped feeling on the precipice of... well, he’s stopped feeling as if he's the protagonist in one of Brian's songs.

  
"I'm sorry," is the first thing he says when he can speak, hardly knowing if Roger even heard him. Roger pushes him back and he's suddenly terrified that Roger hates him, finds him to be nothing but a weak child and is rid of him.

  
"No, no, none of that now," _he was right, no, no, no_. "Don't apologise." Freddie blinks at him in surprise, Roger _didn't_ think him awful? The man is brushing a calloused hand over his cheek, wiping away salty, sticky tears. "What's all this now, Fred? You're still shaking, goodness. Freddie, are you okay?"

  
It takes a swallow to rid his throat of a lump and he expects himself to be able to talk, but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out. _No, not his voice gone, not now, not this too_. He swallows, breathes, and tries again.

  
"I'm fine," it's a croak again, but at least something, "Exhausted."

  
Roger shakes his head, then looks right into his eyes, "Freddie, I know you're exhausted. But I've seen you exhausted before and this is... you've seemed a bit... well, with all the press— being wankers and all— and, just, we worked so hard on the album. Makes hearing all their crap harder," Roger stops, takes a breath, "I'm blathering on now, sorry. I just mean, what's going on with you, what's bothering you?"

  
"Nothing, dear, really," he replies softly, examining his chipped nail varnish now.

  
"Freddie, you can talk to me. Please?"

  
 _Alright, come on, he's Roger, you can talk to him, just like the old days_. _Nothing's changed, not really_. Freddie untangles himself from Roger's arms to lean up against the headboard, looks over to see Roger's warm eyes just watching, waiting to listen. He tries to find where to start, only to falter— _where_ does he start? But Roger beats him to the core issue, _oh the man doesn't know a thing, does he, the dear. Doesn’t know what he’s asking._

  
"Is it about Mary? You must miss her with all this touring— and your precious cats," Roger adds with a playful nudge.

  
"We've— we've broken up, actually. When I got the flat."

  
"Never tell me anything, anymore." Roger's joking, even though there's truth there.

  
"It's very new and with the tour and everything... I'll have you over, dear."

  
It's silent for a moment and Freddie realises that he may as well get it over and done with, tell the whole truth of it, right out.

  
"I actually— well, I was horrid. Not at all right for her, couldn't give her what she wanted. And I... I met someone else." His gaze is back to his nail varnish, willing Roger to make some crack, to say anything actually, so he doesn't have to tell the rest of it, but the man is silent. Luck's run out. His heart clenches as he digs his own grave, "His name's David."

  
Roger is quiet for a moment, but then he deliberately shifts into Freddie's view, "Is he good to you?" He looks nothing but earnest and kind.

  
Freddie is momentarily speechless. No objections, no criticisms, no judgement. Just 'is he good to you'. Bless the man.

  
"It's new, but yes, he's wonderful."

  
"Alright," Roger exhales slowly, "Then what's bothering you?"

  
All he can say to that is, "Everything that goes along with it." 

  
Roger puts an arm around his shoulder again, pulls him close, and Freddie rests his head on his shoulder. On the screen, Garbo is going after the man she loves. The film will be over soon, he notes. She doesn't die in this one. Freddie wonders if in this lane, in this love affair, in this life, if he will be the one to die. Will he expire of passion or heartbreak? Perhaps the question is not if, but when.

  
"Roger," his voice is frantic suddenly, every thought rushing to the fore again, "Roger, what if the press finds out? What if it destroys the band? The press already hate me, I could get away with it being with Mary, but now-" He's terrified every time they go out that some photographer will find them, some reporter will be lurking around the bend, that someone will follow David to his door- who knows what they will do? He clutches the comforter to stop his shaking hands and worries at his lip. "And they've hated this album. All the bad press, even if our fans love us, well is that enough to keep us going?" It all sounds paranoid out loud, worrying to excess, but he can't hold it back. He could be the reason all their work is destroyed. Everything Roger's done, everything Brian's overcome, poor John will have to go into some electric job… and he'll have failed. After tasting this fruit, the sweetness, the power of commanding an audience- how could he possibly settle for anything else?

  
"Remember the show tonight? That audience singing Love of My Life for you?" Freddie nods, it had been wonderful, even if he'd struggled the whole show the audience adored him, "There's no way that can end. They love you. Forget the press, sod them! You Fred, you're something else. Nothing changes the way you capture an audience."

  
"But what if the _audience_ hates me for it?" Freddie whispers, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

  
"Oh, Freddie," Roger sounds so distressed, Freddie thinks, as he's pulled to Roger's chest. Roger himself seems to be having to calm himself down now, too. _Oh this isn't what he meant to do. Roger isn't supposed to be upset, not on account of a wretch_. Roger sniffles, “Sorry, sorry,” inhales harshly, coughs, “How could you possibly think they could hate you? No one could hate you, Freddie. Not a decent person."

  
Freddie isn't convinced, but the sentiment is so very, very kind. "I'm a horror, darling. Have you forgotten what I was like to live with?"

  
"No, Freddie, I haven't forgotten," Roger laughs just a bit, "But you, your _heart_..."

  
"Thank you, darling." Freddie whispers into his shoulder.

  
"I mean it Freddie.” Roger insists so earnestly that Freddie can’t help but accept it. The man’s known him long enough to make a judgement, hasn’t he? “Don’t you worry about anything anymore, alright? Nothing's going to change. Well, not for the worse anyways."

  
"We are doing pretty well, aren't we?" Freddie grins at Roger, moving out of his hug and curling up under the covers. Roger follows suit, just like the old days of sharing hotel rooms and cramped, overcrowded flats.

  
"Yes, we are, Freddie. We'll be on top of the world, just you wait."

  
"Let's fucking do it." Freddie croaks back. Roger grins brightly at him. _They'll be alright_. Roger gets up to turn off the set and then comes right back, reaching to turn off the bedside lamp.

  
"Tomorrow, Freddie. We're both knackered. I'm staying right here," _Good, perfect_ , Freddie thinks, "Goodnight, and thank you for talking to me." His tone, Freddie knows, says _thank you for trusting me_. Freddie nods in the dark, what could he possibly say?

  
"Goodnight, Roger, sleep tight. Oh, and I'll give you a single if you put your face on the drum kit."

  
Roger exhales a laugh and Freddie can imagine his amused expression, even though he can't see it in the dark. He's still bone tired and his throat feels like it's bleeding, but there's slightly less of the world on his shoulders. The worries are still going around in circles in his head, but he can hear Roger’s breathing even out next to him, there’s comfort in that. He’s protected with his friend here. The band will always protect him, won’t they? Just like a family. That’s what they are, he remembers, a family. Roger’s arm falls around him and Freddie moves closer. _Yes, he’ll be alright, whatever happens._  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Do let me know what you thought, darlings!


End file.
